


Der Kleine Tod

by AmandaDBone



Category: Inglourious Basterds (2009)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Knifeplay, M/M, Minor Violence, PWP, Roughness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 03:11:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmandaDBone/pseuds/AmandaDBone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You think this is how it ends? Do you really think this is how I die?"</p><p>A bit of violence, a bit of sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Der Kleine Tod

**Author's Note:**

> This was original written and posted for [Porn Battle XI](http://oxoniensis.dreamwidth.org/35812.html), with the prompts _choke_ , _feel_ , _rumble_ and _grind_.
> 
> The title is (probably incorrect) German for "the little death".

"You think this is how it ends? Do you really think this is how I die?"

Wicki could barely remember how they came to this: himself, pressed into the dirt, a knife at his neck and a warm body grinding into his own; Stiglitz above him, rumbling with laughter at the mere idea that Wicki had any control over his own destiny.

He did, did he not? He had escaped Austria in time. Yes, he had been forced back into the mouth of the very beast he had been fleeing, but he was trying to take control. He was trying to make it his choice, even if it was retroactive.

That did not help the nightmares, though; the dreams of being dragged out of his home, whether his childhood home in Austria or his new home in America, with his mother and siblings watching on as he was shred to pieces by Nazis.

He used to dream in vague shapes, colors, feelings. He used to remember nothing but smears of pink skin, the smell of coffee, undefined anger. In France, it was different; everything was different. He slept next to a Nazi and every day had to tell himself that he was not the enemy.

The rest of them thought that he would be the one to get along best with Hugo Stilgitz. They shared a language, had cousin cultures. Instead, he had hated Hugo the most, unable to stop the idea creeping into his mind that if he had not moved fast enough, if he had stayed behind, it might have been Stiglitz himself that made his end.

All it had taken was one dream, one terrible nightmare with Stiglitz's face for him to jerk awake and roll over, attempting to choke the life out of the man before he was even aware he was awake. Once he was, though, he did not stop; he was mad, mindless with the fear that he would be dead if he did not kill him first, enraged that Stiglitz could drive him so insane without even trying.

But his anger could not, as every angry man hopes, amplify his strength, and Stiglitz overpowered him easily enough. He did not call out to the others, did not make much noise at all, and yet the knife he brandished was not a threat to Wicki's life, even though they were both aware it could be. Instead it was steel humiliation, cutting away at Wicki's resolve.

It was, strangely, like being freed.

He had never before known terror and arousal to appear hand-in-hand, but there he was, hard and biting back moans to keep from waking Utivich, who was only yards away, while every fear he had felt since receiving his draft notice drove into his chest like a drill. While that weight pressed down, his hips pushed up, against Stiglitz's, trying to release all the pressure that was accumulating just under his skin, making it tight and hot.

"This isn't how it ends," Stilgitz hissed in their native tongue, and he might as well have been saying nonsense for all Wicki could focus on it by then. "I will die in a blaze of flame and so will you. It is what we were born for."

"Shut up," Wicki growled, and a moment later his orgasm hit him, and then they both were still, Stiglitz still hard against his hip, his own come growing clammy and disgusting in his pants. Stiglitz did not smile, or laugh, or rut against him for his own release. He only watched him, waiting.

With a shove, Wicki pushed him off, standing quickly and pressing his booted heel into Stiglitz's testicles. Looking down at him, his heart jumped, momentarily believing this to be some sort of trick, some way to take Wicki down mentally and emotionally, a way to kill him without any blood on his hands.

But he remembered that Stilgitz liked the blood, and noticed the way his hips jerked against the pressure of his boot.

"Take your cock out," he demanded in a whisper, and without hesitation Stiglitz did so, stroking himself roughly without further prompting. Wicki pressed his heel in harder, and without anything more Stilgitz came, white splattering across his chest. What Wicki wore covered up in his clothes was now all over Stiglitz, marking him with their sickness that drove them to kill and to fuck in the same way.

They did not speak again as they attempted to clean up silently, not succeeding in doing much but spreading their mess around, and bedded down again, knowing both that all the others would have an idea of what happened the night before and no idea at all, and that they would not mention it. Except perhaps Donny, but they would forgive him, and he, surely, would understand better than the rest.

Wicki dreamt of Nazis again that night, dreamt that he was cut into cubes, but when he woke up his cock was hard and he was not afraid.


End file.
